не ангелы - Not Angels
by mxmsupporter
Summary: Someone once wrote that even when facing death, the knowledge of having a friend is soothing. A collection of Matt x Mello drabbles.
1. Author's note

**Author's note:**

I never seem to write things that I'd like to read. They are always too poetic, too dramatic, with too little angst, presenting the Ms in a too-soft way.

But with them, it's never only about shipping - Matt and Mello make me think, especially about emotions.

And, well...

I hope somebody finds something good in these short fragments.


	2. Fog

There is, apparently, a season Mello likes.

When skies are grey and white, clouds threaten to fall down and mark your corpse like a twisted version of tombstone, the blond breathes in deeper. He takes as much air in as possible and then - he exhales.

Matt has never questioned the fog-surrounded walks because he is rarely a companion to them. Only once, when he was caught sending glances towards the now-scarred skin, did he blurt out

"Why do you love this cold so much?"

Mello just smiled from behind the damp fringe of blond and said:

"It's peaceful, Matt. Nearly like the world wasn't so desperate for survival. And besides" he added, squeezing the other man's gloved fingers with his digits

"I am not cold"


	3. Sting

The two laid on the too-small bed. Semi-darkness surrounded them, disfigured only by the weak lights of the big town outside the curtains.

Tight to tight, eyes drilling into one another. Matt was smoking. Mello was watching. Sweat was glistening on his skin like a halo, marking these shapes Matt's learnt and set his heart on.

Not a sound, except for their breathing.

Inhale and exhale.

Stares sliding down the all-too-known bodies.

Matt's lips curled upward, earning a questioning gaze.

He shook his head gently.

"I'm just kinda happy, you know?" he whispered, softened eyes locking with Mello's.

The blond stretched out his arm gently, as if he didn't want to destroy the moment. His limb curled around Matt's ribs, crushing him into his chest.

"Me too" he murmured into the red hair almost lazily.

Silence and the calm feeling of being sated.

Such moments could last forever.

Such lives should be lived together.

But they wouldn't.


	4. Patient

My role was to wait for him.

Mello wasn't an individual you'd see every day. He was a mixture of passion and insecurity, always trying to get his worth clear to the world. He knew he didn't have to try with me. The sight of him was more than enough. A touch of a hand - a gift. A kiss and a silent apology - all that I could ever ask for.

When we first got to Wammy's House it was a foreign place. The unknown is terrifying, so it's easier to get through with company, isn't it?

He chose to stick with me.

Through all the bad and good memories we've exchanged, he was distant. Not completely present, if not physically then mentally. He had been leaving me every morning just to come back by dinner, flashing me one of his iconic smirks.

Then, when he turned 15, he left. Kira won against the little geek he shared a room with. I never turned bitter, though.

Sure, it was empty without him. Empty like on a blank sheet of paper. The kind of creativity he filled the paper with when he arrived... Hope for that helped me breathe through all of these years.

Then, he came back for real.

After 4 years, changed inside and outside. We lost our innocence long before but unlike me he did it in a violent manner. He was like a supernova shining brightly just to let the world know that his time was coming.

We let our bodies do the talking that night.

A few weeks later and we're sitting in the same room, on the same thin mattress, his back to the wall and my head on his lap. It feels unusual, because for once he truly is with me. And it is because we share the same thought, the thought of ending in a blast. His fingers thread through my hair, scraping at my scalp gently.

Tomorrow, we will take different routes.

Tomorrow, we will make history.


	5. 11pm

The city is more than alive beneath us.

Cars seem to float soundlessly, although still they make the characteristic whisper. Lights flicker on and off, creating an imaginative fire on the hills.

Chewing at the end of an unlit cancer stick, I wonder if the lighter would make too much noise. It's too late for thinking, anyway, as my hands betray me, enlightening my face in orange.

Mello leans of the hood, barely a few centimeters beside me. He's staring, but I know deep down his mind is relaxed. Mello relishes the silence, drinks it in and makes it a part of his own. It makes him calm. It's his time for melancholy and at 4am he doesn't think about Kira, about rankings, about Near and not even about me, his sidekick.

Mello's mind concentrates on the world, on the city under us. Funny how it looks like one belonging to him from the position on the hill. Funny because it's the only moment that he doesn't want to own it. His fingers clench on his forearms delicately as all Mello does is analyze.

Who's feeling depressed?  
>Who's just got home from work?<br>Who's having sex?  
>Who's feeling lonely?<p>

Despite his tough attire, I know all Mello was ever interested in is the dillemma of what marks us as "human".

Up on the hill, leaning on the hood of my red Camaro, Mello forgets he exists. He forgets how tough the next day could be, forgets the bliss of our intimate moments and the tears that never left his eyes, lingering in his voice.

Up the hill, Mello's invincible.

Doing nothing finally feels right.

And as the snap of my lighter wakes him up, he looks at me and smiles (what a gentle smile that is.)

With him by my side, I'm invincible too.


	6. Phobia

Mello's biggest fear wasn't material.

Mello was a runaway train, seemingly never going fast enough, nearly falling off the rail at the turns but always running, always going on. There was no time for anything, especially for changing the decision he's made on a cloudy afternoon when L died in his mind.

It's funny how we assume people are still alive, that we need a confirmation of their bodies rotting, their bones shattering down, and only then they are dead in our heads. You can never meet somebody in person and yet you think you know they are alive – when alive is labeled by breathing and body heat you've never experienced.

To Mello, the whole world could be dead with the way he thought about it.

Never to rely on anyone, run, run, run until your legs give out – don't waste your time for breathing or you could come to a halt.

That's why it made his skin too small and his lungs too shallow when somebody tried to make him inhale for real, choke on reality.

Breathing is something we all know, we find mundane – or we would if it was conscious. You can't choose not to breathe, but if your mind focuses on it, you feel trapped, don't you? You fear that if you didn't take another breath, if you didn't force yourself , you would pass away? The darkness would come? The sudden responsibility for your own fragile life gathers over your head like a rain cloud.

Being conscious about something is always a bit terrifying.

To Mello, knowing his weaknesses was the worst phobia of them all.

If you are aware of something, may it be a stain on your jacket or a hole in your jeans, you immediately focus on it. That's how our tricky minds remind us of always running towards perfection.

Ironically – the world usually couldn't care less.

While you are standing there, trying to avoid everyone's stares, shifting just to hide it – nobody really sees it until you tell them.

Worrying about being cool will never make you cool.

Mello's worst day ever came with the stinging of burns, smell of antiseptics and bandages, and with stripes in his vision. The fire, the smoke, the inhuman pain – all of these things that restricted everyday, life-prolonging actions, like breathing or moving – experiencing them made him aware of his flaws.

And Mello was horrified.

When Matt tried to change the bandages, the stinging in his heart would grow.

A silent grunt of "eat something" made his throat tighten.

He promised himself to never ever be weak again.

And failed.

Always the second one.

Always the human one.

Imperfections were Mello's biggest fear. Or rather – admitting that he couldn't do much about them.

Where were all the childhood sayings about hard work taking you to the top?

He would sit and stare at the wall, suddenly overly aware of the (human) skin under his fingertips, or hair in his vision.

Being conscious makes you want to burst into little pieces, only that it would be marked as defeat.

If everybody runs towards their goals, how could you be sure their kindness isn't a blatant lie?

A mask? A poker trick?

Mello wasn't a game to win or a boss to defeat. So how would the redhead measure his fulfillment? Where could he draw a line?

… Maybe there really is no point of fulfillment happening.

Starting to trust somebody is a painful process – a bone-shattering, skeleton-changing one.

But it's easier if someone breaks your bones for you.

Matt's only fear was his life becoming mundane - again.


End file.
